We Aren't Meant to Sleep Alone
by 6hoursgirl
Summary: He is too big, too alive, too real. She held his broken body, watched his coffin being swallowed up by the earth, she mourned him and grieved for the father her son would never know, but now he's here and she doesn't know where to begin; like a tape unspooled and pieced together in the wrong order. (Post-ep, Three Words)


She doesn't get much rest these days, which is why she's awake to hear his knock. The life inside her turns, kicks, rolls, and she struggles against her own bulk as she gets out of bed to answer the door.

He's retreating down the hall by the time the deadbolt clicks open, his jacket in contrast to the pale skin of his neck, the whole of him a surprise, a miracle clad in jeans and black leather.

"Mulder?"

He stops, pauses a moment before turning around, a sheepish frown on his face. "I woke you."

"You didn't, actually," she says. "Shouldn't you be resting?"

"I could ask you the same," he returns.

"Mmm. You want to come in?"

He shrugs, barely an answer, but it will have to do.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asks.

His frame fills the doorway, a hulking shadow of pain. She is startled by him; the simple fact of his existence is a constant wonder. Not unlike others, she thinks.

As if sensing this, he nods at her swollen belly. "You've gained weight," he deadpans.

She snorts, but there's a smile on her lips, a fleeting memory of old times. "Thanks for noticing."

"It's what I do," he murmurs. "Notice things."

"Tea? Coffee? All I have is decaf."

He shakes his head, doesn't sit. He runs his fingers along by the back of the couch as if committing the upholstery to memory. The circles under his eyes are dark, his cheekbones too prominent.

"So what couldn't wait 'til morning?" she sighs, leaning against the counter to ease the pressure on her lower back.

"I was just driving," he says. "Around." He looks around the apartment as if he's never seen it before, though little has changed in his absence. "I don't know why I'm here, Scully."

Her pulse throbs at her throat. "Loss of memory might indicate a latent bleed, it's possible I missed something in the CT scan—"

"No," he cuts her off. "No more tests."

She blinks, faltering. "Is it the medication? They said if you needed something stronger—"

"My head is fine. That's not…that's not what I meant."

He rubs at the back of his neck. She wonders if she'd find the skin there soft as it once was, wonders if he still smells of Ivory soap and spice.

There is the sudden, insatiable urge to touch him, to confirm he isn't the product of a haunted dream, but when she approaches, he seems confused. She reaches out to cup his cheek, but the skin twitches under her fingers, an almost imperceptible flinch, and her hand drops back to her side.

He is too big, too alive, too real. She held his broken body, watched his coffin being swallowed up by the earth, she mourned him and grieved for the father her son would never know, but now he's here and she doesn't know where to begin; like a tape unspooled and pieced together in the wrong order.

"You're healing," she says, her voice not as steady as she'd like. "I don't think you'll scar."

He blinks numbly. "They're not going to let me back, Scully."

"Let you back? I don't understand…"

"My request for reinstatement was denied."

Oh.

"...but you already knew," he murmurs after a pause, when she damns herself by not offering more.

She folds her arms across her chest, ducks her head. "I told Kersh he was making a mistake, but the decision was final."

"I don't think you put up a fight," he says, jaw clenching. "And once you go on leave, the X-Files will be shut down."

She opens her mouth to protest, but he's right. She hadn't fought, hadn't even tried. She'd clamped down on her tongue and wrested it into submission. Later she'd dabbed at the blood on her lips with a tissue and sucked ice cubes until she could no longer feel her soft palate.

Whatever it took to keep him alive.

"As your doctor and friend, I'm telling you, Mulder, it's too soon for you to be out in the field. What you've endured—"

"Only gives me more reason to get back to work," he snaps. "Without the X-Files, I have no resources, no leads. Nothing."

"They'll have Doggett," she offers weakly.

"Yeah? How long 'til Kersh offers him a promotion? He'd be stupid not to jump at the chance."

"He's not like that."

"No, no, it's fine. I mean, I've been dead, right? Hard to run a division when you're six feet under."

"I'll come back—"

"Drop the kid off at daycare so mommy can chase aliens? That your big plan, Scully?"

Her breath catches at the cruelty in his voice, but his eyes are already clouded with regret.

He swallows. "I'm sorry. I…I know how much you wanted this."

She takes a step toward him. "And what do you want, Mulder?"

It was me, before, she thinks, an indulgent moment of self pity interrupted by his low, bitter laugh.

"Fucked if I know."

Her hurt seeps like an open wound, and he is instantly contrite again, a pendulum vacillating between anger and lost hope.

He coughs, asks, "So, uh, is everything OK? With…you know," he says, gesturing to her middle.

"Normal," she says carefully.

"Ahh. Well, that's…that's good, Scully. Like I said, I'm happy for you. When are you, uh…"

"Due?"

"Yeah."

"Whenever he—or she—is ready," she says, heart pounding, realizing what he's asking. "But probably March."

Mulder blinks, swallows hard, doing the math. "March."

Scully feels light-headed, flushed, like she's standing too close to an open fire. She takes a moment to close her eyes, breathe, and in that second, Mulder is backing toward the door.

"I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't…you should get some sleep while you can."

"Mulder, stop—"

"No, I think you've got enough going on without worrying about a zombie cluttering up the décor."

"Stop it!" she says, the words scraping her throat raw. He freezes but doesn't turn around, like a child waiting for his punishment.

"Stop," she grates out. "Just…stop it. I'm sorry about the work, I truly am. But I'm not sorry for doing what I, as your partner, should have been able to do in the first place."

"And what's that?" he asks thickly.

"I couldn't keep you safe. But you're alive," she whispers. "You don't get to be the martyr, Mulder. You don't get to die and come back to life and then play it like you didn't walk into the light of your own volition."

From the back she can see him wince, and someday she'll tell their son about how it hurts to rip the band aid off, but it hurts more when you do it slow.

You walked away from us, she doesn't say.

As if to remind her, the baby presses a tiny and powerful set of legs against her lungs, causing her to sway, to steady herself against Mulder's back. He appears to have crystallized, frozen in place.

"You think I don't understand, but I do," she says, when she finally catches her breath, tasting salt on her lips. After weeks of mourning, she imagined her body a desert; her insides dry and brittle, with a lush oasis for a womb, and nothing else. Her heart never broke; it simply crumbled to dust.

His back shifts, a subtle acknowledgment. Her hand finds his, turning him to face her, but his eyes remain stubborn, locked on a point over her shoulder.

"I don't remember what they did to me…but I know what they took from me. I know what it's like to wake up, terrified you'll be back in that place, to feel apart because they chose you."

He winces, closes his eyes. The scars on his cheeks ripple, and for a moment she thinks he might cry.

"I didn't sleep for weeks," she continues, stroking the flesh between his thumb and index finger in a hypnotic motion. His next breath is ragged, but she keeps her eyes on his hands, their familiar heft. "I thought if I slept, they might come back, but that wasn't the worst of it. The worst was not knowing who they were. Knowing if they did come, I'd be gone before anyone knew to look for me," she says, realizing this is the most she's talked about her abduction in years; possibly ever. "I came back to a gravestone and an empty apartment, and I thought I'd never be whole again."

There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes. When her hand finds his cheek again, he doesn't flinch.

"You don't have to do this alone."

"I can't…" he begins, but the words don't come. There is only silence, and the warmth of his cheek on her palm, and the defeat in his eyes.

"You need rest," she sighs, breaking his gaze. "Come to bed, Mulder; you shouldn't be driving."

She doesn't know whether it's her logic or his utter exhaustion that makes him follow, but he does.

She lets her robe slide off her shoulders, heedless of Mulder's eyes on her new figure. Her maternity tank barely covers her belly, her briefs remind her of something her mother would wear, but it's too hot for pajamas and lingerie is too restrictive.

She digs through her closet, finds the soft cotton t-shirt she slept with when he was first lost, and tosses it his way. He holds it as though it might crumble in his hands.

"I should go," he mutters, but doesn't move, and she pretends not to hear. She crawls into bed, eventually there's the rustling of clothes, the dip of the mattress as he sits down.

She's already treading the surface of sleep when he joins her, facing her, but not touching. She reaches between them and finds his hand, squeezes it. His eyes are shut tightly, tension radiating off him in waves.

"Breathe, Mulder," she whispers, and his exhale is labored. Her fingers circle his palm until she feels the muscles relax a fraction.

"I've been reading about neonatal development," she says, low and soothing, as if speaking to a frightened animal. "Did you know that the newborn brain isn't fully wired at birth? An infant's nervous system isn't practiced at regulating autonomous functions during deep sleep. Something as simple as breathing is difficult.

"But when the baby shares a bed with their mother or father, the infant gradually adopts the adult's breathing patterns. The parent's breath reminds the child's body to breathe…just by being present," she yawns, her eyes drifting shut.

His hand pulls away, coming to rest lightly on the swell of her abdomen, the touch first uncertain, then steadier, heavier. The warmth of him burns through the thin cotton tank until the baby shifts in response, kicking a steady rhythm against Mulder's palm.

"Scully?" he whispers, choking on her name.

"Shh," she says, placing her hand over his, holding it steady against her side, as the vibration of a new life roils beneath their fingertips. "I'm here."


End file.
